


Investment Patterns in the City of Kirkwall: A Case Study

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Prostitution, Rival Hawke, Voyeurism, templar Carver, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hawkes are penniless and without influence when they first come to Kirkwall -- but Carver knows there is other coin.  The Seneschal shows him how to maximize his return-on-investment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Investment Patterns in the City of Kirkwall: A Case Study

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorrowfulcheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/gifts).



     The first time it happens, it's indisputably exploitation.

     Carver's all right with that.  It's how Kirkwall works, he's coming to understand; quid pro quo, tit for tat, scratch my back and I won't stab yours, and so forth.  There's a part of him that rather likes the _order_ of this.  The predictability.  After Ferelden -- where on a battlefield he learned there was no such thing as loyalty or effective planning, and where in the barren hills that are his sister's grave he learned that there's no such thing as right and wrong, just _us and them_ \-- he craves the simplicity of selfishness.  Human greed is more comprehensible than whatever motivated Loghain to leave half his country to die.  A little ugliness is easier to bear than the sight of Bethany crumpled and too-still on the cold hard ground.

     So when he and Garrett and the others walk into the Viscount's Keep to ask after the bounty on Seamus Dumar, the Seneschal's barely-civil greeting is familiar.  Comforting.  And then it becomes welcome, even, because the man's eyes flick over each of them in turn and dismiss Garrett, and Anders, and Aveline -- but then they stop on Carver, and linger.  It's only for an instant, the touch of those honey eyes, there and away and back for a flicker and away again for good... but Carver marks it, and knows that look for what it is.

     And the man doesn't look at _Garrett_ the same way.  That's satisfying.  That's a much-needed boost in these days when Carver feels unnecessary and low.  Maybe it's desperate, but... well.  He'll take what he can get.

     So later, after Garrett leaves him behind (unnecessary) while he goes forth to find their fortune in the Deep Roads, and their mother takes Carver along when she goes to beg an audience with the Viscount (low), Carver watches.  Again the Seneschal's eyes drift to him, even as he's telling Mother that it's impossible for the Viscount to see every citizen or _former_ citizen, somehow managing to convey a wealth of contempt in that single slightly-emphasized word.  Of course a bit of coin would make space for them in the Viscount's schedule despite this, but Garrett has not returned from the Deep Roads and might never, and all the coin they've spent months accumulating has been wasted on that hope. 

     There is other coin, though, Carver knows.

     So as Mother wanders back into the main hall, weeping a little and clinging to Gamlen (who just looks wearily resigned, long used to Kirkwallian contempt), Carver tells them he'll be along later.  Going to ask about a job.  They barely pay attention to him, as usual.

     So he heads back upstairs and into the Seneschal's open office.  There's a guard near the door, and the Seneschal doesn't lift his eyes from his paperwork, so Carver figures he'd better not waste time.  "Right," he says, and the Seneschal blinks and looks up at his voice.  Quick darting glance again:  down his body and back up, so swift it might be nothing.  But it isn't, Carver's pretty sure, so he steps a little closer and pitches his voice low and says, "So what do you _really_ want?"

     Seneschal Bran licks his lips -- not greedily.  Thoughtfully.  "Nothing you would likely be willing to offer, young serrah," he says.  It's a politician's opening gambit.

     Carver steps closer again, and unhitches his sword to lay against a nearby chair so it's even more obvious. His scabbard's tatty and he can't afford real armor and his bare arms are tight with farming-muscle, but people in Kirkwall look at him more than people did back in Lothering.  He knows why, now that he's had enough time to understand this place:  nobles in the Free Marches tend toward raven hair and smooth, clear skin, and whatever else about him reads to them as Ferelden, that much of him screams _local treasure_. And the Seneschal, Carver's already figured from looking at the man's office -- the dusty bottle of old whiskey on the desk, actually-pretty art on the walls and plinths -- has an eye for rare quality.

     "I gave up my life for my family," Carver says.  None of them appreciate it, but it's the truth.  He doesn't say the rest aloud, letting his presence and posture send the message for him.  _Nothing you want could be too much._

     That does it.  The Seneschal's hands twitch a little on his paperwork.  Then he sets aside some of the papers, and gets up.  He speaks quietly to the guard, and then closes and locks the office doors.

     It's not as sordid as Carver expected.  The man asks Carver to undress, which he does, rather liking the way the Seneschal's eyes grow hotter with each layer shed.  He likes it so much that the Seneschal lets out a soft breath of awe when his smalls drop, because Carver's a grower and he's ripe for harvest by that point.  So he's not really surprised when the Seneschal coaxes him over to sit against the desk-edge in front of him, and -- 

     Fucking Maker, the man's mouth is good for _a lot_ more than snide remarks.

     He tries to bear it and he can't.  He's been too long stuck sharing a room with Garrett, too penniless in a city where the cheap whores will rot your goods off.  The Seneschal draws the tip of his tongue down the centerline of Carver's balls and the tip of his thumb up the ridge of Carver's cock and all at once Carver's gushing, gasping, biting down on the side of his hand so he won't make any loud sounds.  He's nobody, but he's got his pride.  When he slumps, shaking, the Seneschal stands and Carver figures he'll have to turn over and lie across the man's desk.  That's the way these things usually go in copper dreadfuls like _Hard in Hightown_.  The corrupt official takes his bribe out of the beautiful supplicant's arse, usually without oil and with lurid descriptions of the arsegiver's anguish and torn innocence.  Carver's not innocent and he's done it without oil before -- not a lot of luxuries at Ostagar -- but to his surprise, the Seneschal just takes out his kerchief and starts mopping up Carver's spend, looking satisfied even though Carver can feel the lump of his cock through his tunic, where they press together.

     "You could make a great deal of coin at the Rose with your... attributes," the man suggests.

     Carver shakes his head.  "Gonna join the Templars."  Because he's already decided, at this point.  Bethy's dead, Garrett's gone; he has failed all the mages of his family.  Might as well do his best to protect others.

     The Seneschal smiles humorlessly.  "Then you could gain a high rank in the Gallows, with your attributes."

     Urgh.  "Not quite the way to prestige I had in mind."

     "Nevertheless.  Capital is capital, young man, no matter the form it takes, and no matter where in the city you choose to spend it."  The man lets go his cock and slides a hand over the ridges of his belly, and abruptly Carver wishes he didn't need a moment to recover.  "If you learn to use it properly, beauty such as yours has great value.  And power."

     It's the first time anyone's ever called him beautiful.

     On impulse, Carver reaches out, caressing the lump he can feel under the Seneschal's tunic-edge and through embroidered hose.  But Bran captures his hand and tugs it gently away.

     "Beauty has value _if you don't squander it_ ," he says primly, actually making Carver blush at the admonishment.  "What you just gave me is worth one appointment with the Viscount.  You may need more to resolve the matter of your family estate.  You may want... other things, which would require a greater _investment_ on your part."

     Carver swallows.  Maker, it's really been too long.  The man's almost as old as Gamlen and just as much of an arse, but the idea of him doing Carver dry on the desk is anything but repellent.  But he's also _right_ , and... and there's something like respect in the man's gaze right now, even though he's just watched Carver come undone in his hands.  The idea of losing that respect is _very_ repellent.

     "Yeah," he says, sighing, and reluctantly he straightens to pull his pants up.  "...Yeah.  Right, then." 

     But the Seneschal is smiling.  "I'm sorry to disappoint you so," he says, stepping away to let Carver compose himself.  He settles back into his desk chair, elbows propped on the arms and fingers steepled, letting his eyes roam freely where they only visited briefly before.  "Though you do realize:  I, too, am husbanding my capital, here."

     _Maker, you give head like a two-sovereign whore._   Better than, even.  Carver licks his lips and nods.  He's probably blushing, and he hopes Bran doesn't notice.  He doesn't want to be thought of as a callow boy, when he's not.  But he's honest.  "I'm cheap, though."  _Sitting right here, willing if you want me._   "Nothing much for you to, uh, _invest_ in."

     "Don't be so certain of that.  I see... potential."  But Bran rises to open the office door in a plain gesture of dismissal.  It's not as cruel as it could be.  "Until next time, Serrah Hawke."

     Carver nods in what he hopes is a casual way and leaves.  His legs are a little looser than they could be because _fuck_ that suck-off was good, and he can't bring himself to meet the guardsman's eyes, but... well.  Yeah.  He's okay with this.  With what he did.  And the idea that there might be a next time.

     It's exploitation, sure.  But it's mutual, which makes it sort of okay.  Anyway, he's helped Mother, and that's what matters most.  Things could be a lot worse.

     And later, when Garrett is back and the family is ensconced in the mansion, he receives a gift through the Gallows commissary, from an anonymous benefactor.  He opens the box and finds a fine new scabbard of tooled leather, practical and handsome.  He thinks at first it's from Garrett, and is amazed; he'd figured Garrett would've disowned him by now.  But the card with it says, _Keep my investment safe, please._

     Better than Garrett.  He starts using the new scabbard right away.  Earned it, didn't he?  So.

#

     The second time it happens, it comes with a warning.

     He's a Templar now -- a _junior_ Templar, and a Ferelden-born one, and one who was raised outside the Chantry's stifling embrace so he sees the shades of gray that most Templars don't.  He's kind to the mages, too, and there are those disturbing rumors about his brother; it's an ugly situation all around.  When the bullshit starts he thinks at first that he can handle it alone.  He takes on his loudest detractors in the sparring ring, and the next-loudest in the quiet corridors behind the library, where a few fists to the face answer their snark.  The Knight Captain, when he hears of it, pulls him aside and advises him to let the detractors win, now and again.  That way it's just hazing, and they'll move on when another newbie comes along who attracts their attention.  But he's too damned proud to let that happen, which makes him a _challenge_ , so the ranks of his enemies continue to grow.

     Meanwhile, recruits are going missing.  Nobody knows why except the missing recruits and whoever's taking them.  His brother's looking into it, which makes Carver feel _ever_ so much safer, but anyway it's happening mostly to blokes who go to the Rose so Carver just doesn't go there.  His hand's enough for him.  And Bran's lesson -- _don't squander it_ \-- has lodged itself in his head something fierce, so he resolves that he won't fuck any of his fellow Templars unless it gains him something.  After all, he's helped his family earn the Viscount's favor, and (with Garrett's help, he reluctantly acknowledges) the Amell estate back.  A cock that's worth a mansion can't be loaned out cheap.

     But he doesn't think about what it means that recruits have vanished, and that his enemies have stopped attacking him directly, until one day Cullen sends him to the Keep to bear a message for the Viscount's eyes only.  He likes that -- Cullen trusting him -- even though he knows that some part of the attention he gets from Cullen is rooted in desire.  Cullen's better than Bran at hiding it, but Carver's seen him swallow when they're sparring together, and felt the Knight Captain's hand tremble on his back or his shoulder.  Well, a Knight Captain's equivalent to a Seneschal, kind of, isn't he?  So Cullen's worthy, and Carver will show him that if Cullen ever stops being so bloody ethical.  Until then, if Cullen's lust manifests itself as a willingness to trust, Carver will take that, too.

     Learn to use it properly, and all.

     He stops at the apothecary to prepare before he heads to the Keep.  The guards show him to the Seneschal's office.  Carver's pleased to see Bran again, but shocked by the change that the last year has wrought:  Bran is paler and weary, lines of stress etching themselves into permanence around his mouth, and for a sinking moment Carver thinks the man doesn't recognize him.  But then Bran says to the guards (more of those, too), "Leave us.  Close the door."

     When the door is locked, Carver says, "I have to give this to the Viscount."  He holds up the small sealed envelope that Cullen has given him.  "No one else -- not even you."

     "Hmm.  Your Knight Captain seems a less trusting soul than he used to be."  Bran moves to his chair and settles into it, steepling his fingers.  "Not that I can blame him, given Meredith.  But we do have a conundrum here -- because you need to see the Viscount, and you also need the information _I_ have for you, about a plot against your life."  Bran's lips thin as he smiles.  "I'd been trying to figure out a way to get you here, actually."

     This is surprise upon surprise, and for a moment Carver is thrown by it.  Who the Void wants to kill _him_?  Usually people are after Garrett instead.  But then he thinks of all the people who hate him in the Gallows, and how cheap life has become there, and the thought changes to _Who the Void doesn't want to kill me?_   He needs Bran's information so he'll know from which direction the knife might come.

     "A double favor, then?"  He starts unbuckling his armor even as he talks, and Bran's honey gaze grows thick and delicious.  "I suppose I'll have to offer something special."

     "What do you imagine could be worth so much?"

     Carver doesn't reply.  It takes him a little while to get all the armor off, and the layers beneath it, but then he's naked and he's walking around the desk and the way Bran's looking at him is so sodding _nice_.

     "You tell me," Carver says, finally answering Bran's question.  Bran hasn't moved, still sitting fingers a-steeple, but Carver can tell it's just a pose.  He can see the tension in those long legs even if they are stretched out with the ankles crossed so-casually.  Then Carver sets down the little vial that he bought at the apothecary's, and a little folded paper beside that:  Serrah's Sweet, the currently-popular lubricant formula in this city of people who make a fashion of fucking, and an Orlesian Letter.  So Bran will know Carver's the fastidious type.  He's taking good care of Bran's investment.

     Bran licks his lips, his eyes on Carver's cock again.  " _Options_ ; how considerate."  His eyes lift, slowly, to Carver's face, and for a moment he just stares, his own expression a mingling of hunger and something else that Carver cannot interpret.  "You _want_ this."

     Carver raises his eyebrows.  "Think I'd be here if I didn't?"

     Bran shrugs.  "Not everyone would be comfortable with such an arrangement."

     Carver shrugs too.  "You're easy enough on the eyes.  And -- "  He hesitates.  But he cannot say, _You think I'm beautiful and you give the best head I've ever had_ , because that will make him sound weak.  One does not negotiate from a position of weakness.  Instead he offers, "You give fair value for what you get.  In Kirkwall, that's practically marriage."

     It's enough to pull a dry laugh out of Bran, and the tension seems to fall away from him.  When he stands, reaching for the lube, Carver thinks he knows what Bran wants.  He leans back against the desk again, puts one leg up on the arm of Bran's chair, inviting him closer.  Bran takes the invitation gracefully, wrapping a wet hand around him and stroking until he's panting, and then he leans close.

     "Magnificent," he whispers in Carver's ear, which makes Carver shiver all over and close his eyes from the overwhelming feeling of specialness.  "Let's play a new game, lovely boy.  Lie back."

     What follows is torturous, though not quite cruel.  Bran wants to play with him -- not like he's a toy, that would be sort of sick, but like he's an instrument.  That's the only way Carver can think of it when Bran's fingers walk down his side, grazing with just a bit of nail to make him squirm; and when Bran's tongue laves one of his nipples, which he didn't even know could feel good; and when Bran lifts his leg and slides two fingers into him and makes Carver slam his hand to his mouth and bite hard enough to draw blood to keep himself from yelling.  And all the while, Bran keeps at his cock with that one hand -- slowing it down, speeding it up, little circling motions, a hard squeezing tug.  It keeps Carver on the brink for what must be hours.  And when Bran finally presses up with the fingers inside Carver and bites down on his nipple and curls his fingers around Carver's cock just so, Carver writhes and bucks and comes apart.  This time he doesn't have to silence himself.  He's too transported to make a sound.

     And after, once he recovers enough that he becomes aware of the world again, he finds Bran back in his chair with his fingers steepled as if he never moved from it.  His eyes are lambent in the room's golden light.

     "Your detractor is a Ser Mettin," Bran says softly.  "He means to kill you, hide the corpse, and blame whoever has kidnapped your recruits for the deed."

     Carver doesn't bother sitting up.  It's too obvious that Bran's enjoying the sight of Carver sprawled amid his papers like a study in duty and debauchery.  But the information's a surprise.  "Mettin's a stickler," he says, frowning to himself and scratching at his belly, where his spend is beginning to dry and itch.  "He doesn't like me, but he's never given me any trouble.  Figured he was too by-the-book for that."  And Carver would never have seen it coming.

     Bran lifts an eyebrow.  "Ser Mettin is the ringleader of the Gallows' illicit lyrium trade.  Or so I have it from my spies and the Merchants' Guild."

     Bloody Maker.  Carver sits up on one elbow, already thinking of how he can find proof of this and give it to Cullen, cut the bastard off at the knees before he can shank Carver in the showers, and belatedly he notices Bran smiling.  "What?"

     Bran shakes his head.  "Watching my investment grow."  He shifts a little, unsteepling his hands to adjust himself, and Carver's thoughts come away from scheming and back to basics.  He rolls to his feet and settles on his knees before Bran, resting his hands on the man's legs.  Bran lifts an eyebrow.  "I do not squander _my_ assets, boy."

     Carver swallows, inching his hands up Bran's brocade-clad legs just a little.  Maker, his mouth's watering.  "It's Sister Petrice," he says, after a moment's thought.  "The one who's been trying to rile up the Qunari.  There's a former Templar working with her, Varnell -- "

     Bran touches his lips with a finger.  "I know that already," he says, but his voice is gentle, and he looks pleased.  "Yet it is a good-enough try that it deserves some _credit_ , I suppose."

     So then he rests his hands on Carver's, and as Carver pushes them up Bran guides him, and pretty soon he's got the tunic-edge pushed up and the trouser laces loosened and Bran is thick and wide and ready atop a nest of coppery curls.  It surprises Carver how much he _wants,_ looking down at this cock.  It's a fierce need, a hunger where he's felt only mild interest in other men and women, and why? 

     Doesn't matter.  He nuzzles along the undercurve of Bran's smooth length, and then Bran is warm and salty and slightly perfumed as Carver carefully swallows him down.  It's neither as unpleasant nor as difficult as he feared; he's been imagining this, see.  Since Bran showed him how proper head was done.  Bran's quiet as he works, but his body speaks tales and sings praises, and eventually he inhales and his hips buck.  Carver eases off the tip while he comes, because he figures that's what Bran would want.  Fastidious men don't swallow.  But he stays close and keeps nuzzling and some of it ends up on his face and he can feel how Bran's gaze lingers on this.  Fastidious, but _marked_.  Proof of purchase, maybe; Carver grins at this thought.  He's hard again by the time he stands up to fetch a cloth, but he doesn't offer Bran a taste or touch.  Bran notices Carver's silence and smiles again, approvingly, even as Carver mops them both clean.

     When Carver's dressed and presentable -- Bran takes the cloth and wipes something out of the hair at his temple, oops -- he's let in to see the Viscount, and he stands waiting while the man reads Cullen's missive.  The Viscount frowns as he reads it, looking perplexed rather than concerned, even though Carver knows full well Cullen wouldn't have written him unless the matter was urgent.  Does it trouble Bran, working for a man so... simple?  No wonder Bran needs a little relief now and again.

     Bran passes Carver on his way out of the Viscount's office:  Bran's going in, no doubt to help the Viscount understand the nuances and implications of the message.  That's what Bran does:  nuance.  Nothing in Kirkwall is black and white; only a man who lives in the gray spaces can keep it running smoothly.

     Bran's eyes meet Carver's only once in this moment, briefly and then away.  A farewell, and a reminder:  the Gallows is a place of nuance, too.  Carver will need to be careful.

     He heads back, and by the time he reports to Cullen that the message has been delivered, he's already plotted Ser Mettin's downfall.

#

     The third time is protective, because all chaos has broken loose and the Qunari are in the streets.  Carver's got his own troop by now -- Ser Mettin's troop, and Ser Mettin's rank, assigned to Carver when Ser Mettin's neck got snapped in the noose -- but the Knight Captain's with them too, so Carver's just following his lead.  They're trying to fight towards the Keep, because it's obvious that's the Qunari's goal.

     But they spot a party of dead city guards in one courtyard of Hightown, all of them surrounding a single dead Qunari warrior, and in the shadow of a doorway nearby sits the Seneschal, dazed and bleeding from a cut and bruise on his forehead.

     "Maker's Breath," Cullen says, a beat before Carver would have.  The Captain goes to Bran's side, too, helping him up, an instant before Carver would have.  Bran seems shaken but otherwise well enough, and he proves it by throwing a withering look at Cullen when Cullen suggests Bran come with them.

     "Oh, _certainly_ ," he says.  "Back to the Keep, which men have just died to get me _away_ from, and which the Qunari have surely invaded by now?  That is quite possibly the most brilliant plan I have ever heard, Knight Captain; _thank_ you."

     Cullen's grimace is almost laughable.  "Very well, then," Cullen says, and perfunctorily he signals Carver, a breath before Carver would have volunteered.  "Knight Corporal Hawke, please escort the Seneschal to -- wherever he was going -- safely.  I cannot spare more men, but I trust your sword, and your _patience_ , more than any other."  He levels a look at Carver, and Carver realizes the Knight Captain is trying to caution him to hold his temper.  The Seneschal is an important man.

     "I'll get it done, ser," Carver says, trying not to smile, and with a rueful final nod to Bran, Cullen leads the rest of the Templars away.

     Bran's hurt worse than he looks, Carver realizes when they start to move, keeping to the shadows in hopes of avoiding another attack from Qunari or looters.  He doesn't need Carver's arm, but he does have to stop periodically, and he's got a queasy look; bit of a concussion, most likely.  He was headed toward his own home in Hightown, he says, which Carver nixes at once.  There's not much Carver gets about the Qunari, but he knows they're not stupid.  Everyone knows that the person who's really been running the city is Bran.  Anyone who wants to control the city will be looking for him.

     He's a bit proud of himself when Bran blinks at this, frowns, and finally says, "Sound reasoning, I must concede.  But if not my house, then I have nowhere else to go."  He touches the front of his doublet, and Carver hears the faint crinkle-rustle of papers.  "Kirkwall has secrets that must be hidden, should the worst occur and Viscount Dumar..."  His jaw flexes, and he falls silent for a moment.  "Dumar would not leave, when I asked him to come with me.  Since Seamus, he has been... unmotivated."

     Well, that means Dumar's probably dead.  Which doesn't fuss Carver much -- the man was an idiot -- but clearly it bothers Bran, so he holds his tongue on the subject.

     "The Amell estate," Carver decides.  Because Garrett might have let their mother get killed, Carver's still too angry to think about that, but he's still got the key his mother gave him ages ago when they first came to Fereldan, and anyway Bodahn will let him in.  "There's a passage to Darktown in the wine cellar if it comes to that, but the Qunari aren't likely to hit the estate anytime soon, anyway."  Not with their mother dead.

     Bran's blinking owlishly at him, which makes Carver feel abruptly selfconscious.  "What?"

     Bran shakes his head and blanches more, and for an instant Carver thinks he's going to chuck.  But he holds it in and says instead, "Simply reflecting on the fact that I never dreamt my investment would pay off so _well_.  Please; lead on."

     They head through the firelit streets.  There's only a little trouble -- looters eying Bran's fine clothes, though they back off as soon as Carver draws his sword and gives them a fuck-thither look.  Bodahn opens the door only after Carver bangs and shouts through it for five minutes; of course he doesn't have his key _with_ him.  But the dwarf immediately smiles to see him, and beckons them within, and promises to keep Bran safe.  He and Sandal have got travel-packs leaning against the wall, ready to grab and go; wordlessly, Sandal starts assembling another pack even as Bodahn sits Bran down in the study and offers him headache tea.

     It suits Bran, Carver thinks as he watches the man settle into the big posh chair, and for a moment he is sad that he has no estate of his own and no riches to offer.  Nothing but his body, and occasionally his shield.  But Bran exhales as Bodahn leaves to fetch the tea, watching Carver in a way that feels like more than gratitude.

     "If there is anything left of us when all this is done," he says, quietly, "I mean to take a closer interest in you."

     It could mean anything.  It could even be a threat.  Doesn't feel like one, though, and... and Carver's smiling.  He can't quite help it.  "If there's anything left of us," he agrees, "I'll welcome that."

     That's it.  Bran just nods.  Carver nods back and heads for the door, telling Sandal that he's got to get to the Keep and snapping, "No," when Bodahn hesitantly asks if Carver's got a message for his brother.  What would be the point?  Garrett doesn't need anything from him, and he's probably out there saving the whole city, anyway.  Carver just does what he can to take care of his own little pieces of it.

     He glances toward the study one last time as he passes into the foyer, then heads back out into the Void.

#

     The next time is pure obligation.

     Cullen's apologetic, but Meredith's insistent:  there needs to be a liaison between the Gallows and the Keep, in the absence of a Viscount.  And since Carver is known to the Seneschal and might be a more-acceptable choice than another Templar...  He seems a little surprised at how readily Carver agrees.

     So then Carver spends nearly every day at the Keep, ferrying Meredith's increasingly-nonsensical "suggestions" to Bran and carrying Bran's increasingly-testy replies back.  In between he stands attendance on Bran while the Seneschal meets with nobles and Guardsmen and merchants, letting his armored presence serve as a subtle reminder that Bran speaks with the backing of the Knight Commander -- even if the relationship is not quite as unified as appearances would suggest.  It's not something Meredith or Cullen asked him to do, just a small favor he offers for his own reasons.  Bran doesn't thank him for it, but he nods acknowledgement whenever Carver arrives, which is just as good.  Respectful.  That's better than thanks.

     And every so often during the long, grueling days, whenever Bran starts to look particularly worn or frustrated, Carver takes the initiative to go to the office door and let the guards know the Seneschal is not to be disturbed for awhile -- important meeting, sensitive discussion, city secrets, whatever.  He figures they know what's really up.  Or maybe they don't; he doesn't care.  Anyway, he locks the door.  Bran always looks so relieved when he sees Carver's armor coming off.

     It's different these days.  There's a couch in Bran's office, and that's where he takes Carver -- not the old games of licks and play, Bran's too tight-wound for that.  Mostly Bran just pulls Carver on top of him, or pushes Carver down on his face, and they fuck.  It's rough, quick, exquisite:  stress relief.  Nothing held back.  After, Carver holds Bran until he falls asleep, because he's not getting near enough rest these days.  When he wakes, Carver strokes or sucks him off again -- Bran never protests this, because they both know he sodding needs it -- and then they get dressed and Carver orders them a meal and they sit down to eat it.  Bran's not eating well, either.

     And sometimes during these quiet moments, with the door shut and the mess that is Kirkwall held at bay for a little while longer, Carver catches Bran watching him in a bemused sort of way.  "What are you doing?" he asks once, when Carver's pushing a pudding around on his plate and plainly just eating to make Bran eat.

     "Eating so you'll eat," Carver says.

     "No," says Bran, with a patience that he shows to no one else.  "That isn't what I mean, and you know it."

     And since Carver figures Bran knows full well what Carver's doing, he just shrugs a little.  "Taking care of _my_ investment."

     Bran smiles wearily.  "I think," he says, forking up another slice of beef that he plainly doesn't want, "we should discuss the principles of good financial management at some point.  It's best to bail out of a sinking ship, you see."

     Carver shrugs again.  "My mother taught me that you stay in an investment as long as you still see value in it."

     He resumes eating, skipping the pudding for the treacle tart, but Bran just stares at him for a long while after.

#

     But what is any solid business arrangement, after all, but a partnership?

     And that's the thing about fortune:  you can't plan for it.  You can't guess when your Knight Commander's going to get infected with dwarf magic and lose her sodding mind, or when your brother's arsehole of a lover's going to let his demon take over and blow up the Chantry.  You can't choose ahead of time to mutiny for captain and family.  You can't witness the start of a war and expect things not to change.  Drastically.

     One minute he's watching Garrett walk out of the Gallows to face his fate, the next someone's handing him the Viscount's circlet.  But he's not so shocked by this that he doesn't notice the little smile on Bran's face, and that's how he understands what's happened.  Bran's investment has matured at last, and he's decided it's time to cash in.  Doesn't help that the nobles and Knight Commander Cullen all want it, too, though it would've been nice for someone to have _asked_ Carver first.

     But, well.  Carver's valuable now.  Necessary -- Bran has made certain of that.  And he has trained Carver well.

     So Carver takes up the place that Bran has made for him, and of course it is Bran who takes his own place at Carver's side.  And if the new Viscount and his Seneschal seem rather closer than is strictly necessary, taking meals together and even conferencing long into the night in the royal quarters...

     ...and if Carver no longer bothers to remain silent when he's in Bran's snarky mouth or capable hands because he's a sodding _king_ and kings shouldn't have to hide when they're having a good time...

     ...and if he wants no other hands on him and no other voice in his ear because only someone who has always seen his value deserves to know the depths of him...

     ...and if Bran seems less acerbic than usual these days, and smiles more often, and the whole bloody Keep lets out a breath of relief for it...

     ...well.  That's just how things have to be.  This is Kirkwall, after all:  the city of tit for tat, quid pro quo, stroke my back and I pull you close to murmur in your ear as we lie together, warm and cozy in the city I have made safe for you, in the house whose luxuries we have both earned. 

     Just because it's an arrangement doesn't mean it has to end anytime soon. 

     And just because he's happy -- well.  The best investments always produce unexpected dividends.  Nothing wrong with enjoying them.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, sorrowfulcheese! And please know that this has been one of the hardest fics I've ever written. ::GLOWER:: Took me three. Sodding. Tries. I'd intended to write something funny, snark vs snark, but both Bran and Carver tend to do *mean* snark, so that kind of killed the chemistry. Instead I decided on something a little more somber -- jadedness begetting jadedness -- and that worked out better.


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